


Rest Your Weary Head

by brothebro



Series: Witcher!Jaskier fics [10]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: A pitiful attempt at passing as human, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Coën (The Witcher) - Freeform, Erland of Larvik - Freeform, Falling In Love, Fluff and Humor, Found Family, Himbo Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Himbo Jaskier | Dandelion, Identity Porn, Innkeeper Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Light Angst, M/M, Minor Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Minor Original Character(s), Mutual Pining, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Platonic Relationships, Romance, Running a Business, Secret Identity, Slow Romance, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), human!Geralt (glamoured), the kaer morons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25958770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brothebro/pseuds/brothebro
Summary: “What doyouwant your occupation to be, Geralt?” the sorceress smirks.“Horses,” he blurts out before his brain can catch up with his treacherous tongue. He snaps his mouth shut and feels the telltale signs of a blush creeping up on him. Fortunately for his ego, Yennefer doesn’t comment on it, her face still wearing that excitement he could always recognize when she got herself a new project.  (He doesn't become a ranch owner)Or: In order to raise Ciri safely, Geralt becomes the proud owner of an inn, hiding his witchery nature under a glamour. Meanwhile, a witcher named Julian poses as the bard Jaskier using a glamour himself. He's travelling the world and ends up in Geralt's inn. Shenanigans ensue and pining happens.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Witcher!Jaskier fics [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1735504
Comments: 193
Kudos: 416





	1. The beginning

They are surrounded. 

Geralt counts fifteen --no-- twenty-two heavily armed men. With a quick look at their deliberately mismatched armours and the not well-hidden bits of insignia on the pommels of their swords --a black sun-- he realizes they are Nilfgaardian soldiers.

Fuck. 

There is no doubt they are here for the Cintran princess. 

Geralt unsheathes his steel sword, Ciri tugged protectively beneath his free arm. He knows it isn’t wise in the long run but he puts pressure on his uninjured foot as he readies himself to parry the incoming attacks. There is a nigh nonexistent chance they will get out of there alive but he’s willing to die trying. 

It’s a pity. They are so close to the thick tall walls of Vengerberg and yet so far away. But lamenting will get them nowhere and if they manage to outmanoeuvre the small horde of swordsmen and get in Vengerberg all is going to be well. After all, Yennefer is there and she has the means to protect his Child-Surprise. 

_ Now if only he’d accepted that Xenovox the last time he saw her… She could have portaled them out of this debacle. A right fool he was, prideful and overconfident.  _

And look at them now. 

He’s trying his best, given the circumstances, to cut and slash as many foes before him as his strength allows him to. But the ghoul bite on his leg is not fully healed --it tugs and throbs, waves of hot pain pulsate-- and since Cintra, he didn’t have the time to replace his armour. 

Armourless and injured he fights a frantic dance. The dance of survival. 

He’s cut in multiple places, he’s bruised and in no shape to continue fighting but he must press on. He won’t let them take the princess. He can’t let them harm her. 

There are still a lot of soldiers left, seemingly an endless stream of them attacking from all sides. Geralt is tiring, swiftly so, and his movements get more frantic as time passes. Ciri, a small bundle, curled onto him, her fear noxious in the air. 

No, it’s not fear, Geralt realizes. 

He can almost taste the tendrils of chaos that emerge from the scared little girl on his side. They wrap and twist and bubble, gathering. Waiting. Until… 

Geralt hears the girl’s breath hitch as he barely parries the sword of an exceptionally tall soldier and an arrow finds its target in his shoulder blade. He winces as hot flaring pain surges through his body. But he doesn’t have time. The chaos grows denser and denser. He doesn’t have time. Without a second thought, he casts Quen on him and prays to be spared the explosion. 

_ If Cirilla’s magic is anything like Pavetta’s-- _

Then the chaos explodes and darkness comes. 

* * *

Jaskier has been a fool. He shouldn’t have followed Yenna on that bloody mountain. Hell! He shouldn’t have fought the fucking Djinn in the first place. 

_ But then Yenna would be dead _ , his mind reminds him,  _ consumed by the Djinn’s power. _

Ugh. He doesn’t like what Borch did to them, to their friendship. He shouldn’t have interfered. But the absolute fuck couldn’t resist telling Yenna that as Jaskier banished the Djinn, so did he destroy any chances the sorceress had into capturing another. 

She’s marked. No evil spirit will dare approach her as long as she lives. And that means her one way of becoming a mother was taken from her. Jaskier took that from her and he hates himself for it but at the same time, he’s glad she’s alive. Safe. All fire and fury. 

Understandably, she’s mad at him. He took her choice away, he knows as much. But he would do it a thousand times over and he tells her so. Because she’s his dearest friend and he would not see her destroyed by her own hand. “There’s going to be another way,” he yells at her. 

“There is no other way you stupid witcher!” she yells back and with a motion of her hand she opens a portal, “I need to be alone right now,” her voice barely a whisper as she steps through the swirling chaos. 

“I’ll find a way,” he croaks but Yennefer has already passed through the portal. 

He’ll find a way. He’ll find a way because Yennefer deserves it. Because what kind of shitty friend is he if he leaves her like that? 

Oxenfurt. He’ll go to Oxenfurt. Surely the massive library will have some forgotten book about fertility. Luckily, he still has his glamour and he is an esteemed member of the faculty so he can do as he pleases in the library with the pretext of ‘research’. 

And after that perhaps he’ll pay a visit to Kaer Seren, his oldest home, half-destroyed now but still standing. The Griffin’s always had an insatiable hunger for knowledge. He’s bound to find something that will be useful to Yenna. 

Alright. A plan. That’s a start at least. 

Hold on one minute. Kaer Seren is closer to where he is now. Well, a slight change of plans then. The Griffin Keep first, Oxenfurt second. 

With a heavy but hopeful heart, he makes the descent down the Dragon Mountain. 

* * *

Geralt’s ears are ringing, a high pitched noise akin the screams of several tens of Katakans. Fuck. He doesn’t know how long he’s passed out for. Is Ciri alright? Is she safe? He must know.

He gets up swiftly opening his eyes, his gaze darting around. The world starts spinning and he has to make an effort not to collapse right there on the spot. 

“Easy there, easy,” Yennefer’s familiar voice addresses him and he feels a helping hand around his waist. He opens his eyes --slowly this time-- and comes face to face with the amethyst gaze of the sorceress. 

“Is - is-,” he wants to ask if Cirilla is alright if she survived the attack. But his own voice is too loud for his still ringing ears. It’s making him dizzy. 

“The young princess is fine,” Yennefer says, lowering her voice volume when she notices Geralt wincing at the sound of her voice. “She’s asleep in the guest room. Not a hair on her head harmed.”

Geralt lets out a sigh of relief. That’s good news. They both survived the ambush and the kid is unharmed. That’s more than he thought possible.

He half stumbles forward, knowing the way to Yennefer’s guest room. He might trust Yen with his life but he has to see his Child-Surprise for himself to calm the anxiety that is swirling in his brain. 

“Wait,” says Yennefer softly and murmurs something in Elder under her breath and within moments the ringing in his ears subsides until it’s gone completely. 

“Thank you Yen,” he breathes out in relief. The tension in his limbs loosening ever so slightly. 

“What will you two do now?” she asks, her brow furrowed with worry. What will they do? That is a good question. Geralt isn’t naive, he knows Nilfgaard will stop at nothing to get the princess. He isn’t sure of the specifics but they want her and they want her alive. Her recent journey is proof of that. 

_ They even sent a doppler after her for fuck’s sake! _

“I don’t know,” he finally admits, “I thought to take her to Kaer Morhen but I’m not sure she’ll be safe there.” The protective wards around the keep have lost their strength over the years and the sheer magic power they need to be fueled with needs at least half the sorceresses of Aretuza and the mages of Ban Ard. Vesemir has told him as much. 

Yennefer nods in approval, “Fringilla knows of your claim on the law of surprise. She could probably deduce that you would take her there.” 

“Fuck,” he shakes his head. trying to think of all the possible locations he could take Ciri to keep her safe. When none come to mind -- how does one outrun an army of mages anyway? -- he repeats, “ Fuck! What should I do Yen?”

Geralt watches as Yennefer walks toward her desk and rummages through some notes, trinkets and vials. “Ah yes,” she whispers to herself and turns to face Geralt, holding two small pieces of jewellery and a piece of parchment inscribed with arcane symbols and what’s most likely academic level Elder. “Geralt,” she says, a mischievous smile forming on her lips, “I might have a solution. How would you like to take a break from the Path?” 

Geralt raises a brow. How would he be able to take a break? He’s not exactly what you would call inconspicuous. His white hair and beastly golden eyes make sure he’s recognized throughout the Continent. 

Yennefer rolls her eyes, “A glamour to make you appear human,” she explains, “And a glamour for the little one to mask her chaos.” 

“That- That’s not a bad idea.” This is such a simple yet potentially safe solution. Nobody would even blink an eye if he was human. It’s alluring, the thought of leading a human life. Raising Ciri in a safe environment. 

“Fantastic!” 

“But where should we go after that? What should I do for a living?”

“What do  _ you  _ want your occupation to be, Geralt?” the sorceress smirks. 

“Horses,” he blurts out before his brain can catch up with his treacherous tongue. He snaps his mouth shut and feels the telltale signs of a blush creeping up on him. Fortunately for his ego, Yennefer doesn’t comment on it, her face still wearing that excitement he could always recognize when she got herself a new project. 

He could hypothetically get a ranch, buy and breed and train horses. That would be inconspicuous enough. But, his mind wanders to his brothers and their harsh lives on the Path and he thinks that maybe, just maybe he should choose something that would help them as well. 

Botanist? Perhaps, though there aren’t many and a new one appearing out of nowhere and with a child to boot is, well, suspicious. 

Should he try working as a hunter? He’s good with the bow and he’s hunted for dinner more times than he can count but that means he would have to spend many hours away from Ciri, ergo putting her in danger. Plus he can’t see how he could help his fellow Wolves with that profession. 

Hmmm… 

“Innkeeper, perhaps?” Yennefer provides helpfully after she so rudely peeked at his thoughts. “So you can stay in one place and have the child close to protect her. And you could also provide a safe haven for all witchers passing through.” 

It makes sense. He’s been in enough inns in his long life to have picked a thing or two about running a business. He can do it. How hard can it be after all? It’s just ale, cooking and keeping a place clean. Not much different from a winter in Kaer Morhen. 

“Innkeeper,” he agrees. 

* * *

Jaskier, or as he’s currently known as, Julian, had a crazy year. Well, sort of. The only crazy thing that happened was the unfortunate loss of his dearest, most beloved glamoured bracelet that allowed him to pass as a human. This happened sadly many months ago and he’s missing his bardic career very much. 

But no, this isn’t what’s important here. The important thing is that he bloody lost the fucking bracelet only a week after he left Kaer Seren after he had been searching under rubble and half-destroyed rooms for secret magicky magic knowledge to bring to Yenna for… How long was it? _Ah, yes._ _Three bloody months_. And in the middle of summer to boot. 

Well, he can’t complain much as he did indeed find several promising tomes on magic and rituals (and also, Kaer Seren being high on the mountains and so far north meant he didn’t have to spend the summer sweating due to the unforgiving evil summer sun. But that’s a small mercy).

Anyhow, the problem with losing the bloody glamour wasn’t as much as he wouldn’t be able to perform. He’s a witcher after all and he’s learned patience during his long years on the Path. No, the problem was that he couldn’t, well, pass as a human no matter how much he wished so and well… to be perfectly honest the problem was that he could pass as professor Jaskier Pankratz and therefore he didn’t have any access to Oxenfurt’s vast library. 

You see, Julian the witcher looked… very different from Jaskier the bard, to say the least. Where Jaskier was clean-shaven, hair short, always impeccably styled, Julian sported a long-ish beard and wore his long brown --with a white streak-- hair up in a tall ponytail, the sides of his head always shaven. 

_ Damn it all.  _

Well this minor inconvenience of appearances aside, he did, in fact, manage to sneak into the university’s library and liberate a couple of tomes on fertility and magic. 

He just hopes Yenna will find in her heart to forgive him -- he’s missed her terribly -- and moreover, he hopes that some of these quite heavy tomes will come to handy and that he didn’t go through so much trouble only to have to return them later. 

Anyhow, having heard of the quite terrifying advance of Nilfgaard and the battle of Sodden, in which he’s sure Yennefer took part in --this woman was always righteous, no matter what she claimed-- he stopped everything that he was previously doing, namely contracts to catch up on months of missing gold, and rushed to Vengerberg. 

He’s sure Yennefer will be here, in her safe house, recovering from the battle. He just hopes she’s well. 

He’s very near Vengerberg, approaching rapidly on horseback towards its southeastern gate when he sees -- or rather smells initially -- the massacre of what must have been a small battalion of soldiers. The scattered blades on the ground indicate Nilfgaard and his stomach turns at the thought that something might have happened to his best friend in the whole wide world. 

It reeks of chaos and the absence of a rotting body of a certain amethyst eyed sorceress (he can’t smell her on the scene either) is comforting. 

Julian casts Axii on his distressed horse and leads her towards the thick walls of Vengerberg. There’s no bloody chance he’s willing to lose time investigating whatever the fuck happened to those soldiers and be caught by an unsuspecting peasant that will surely blame him and his brethren for this murder, ritualistic sacrifice, well… whatever the fuck this is. 

So, he beelines straight to Yenna’s safe house. An unsuspecting two-story building in the middle of the bustling town. He leaves his horse tied on a nearby watering post, goes through the narrow alley towards the side entrance of the building and knocks rhythmically on the beat of the agreed-upon code with his sorceress friend. 

The door opens and to his relief, his gaze meets the familiar amethyst eyes of Yenna. 

“Jaskier,” she snarls, “What the fuck are you doing here?” 

“I came bearing gifts,” he smiles brightly presenting a couple of the looted tomes on magic, “And asking for forgiveness. Initially, I didn’t know the djinn would do that to you Yenna, I’m truly sorry. I should have told you the moment I found out. Will you--” 

Yennefer flicks her fingers and Julian feels his mouth snap shut. “Come inside you idiot,” she says and drags him through the door by the arm, “Do you have any idea what you’ve brought with you?” 

“Uh… magicky magic hidden knowledge because I want to help  _ you _ , my oldest friend?” Yennefer nods in response. 

“Your only friend,” she smiles mockingly but there’s no bite in her words. She turns her gaze to the spot where his glamour once lay and her eyes widen in disbelief, “What the fuck did you do to your glamour Jaskier?” 

“First of all, I have another friend besides you and don’t tell me no because I know for certain you’ve met Coen and secondly regarding the glamour… I - how do I say this without sounding like a fool…Well, you see... A bear ate it.”

“Excuse me?” 

“Sadly it’s the truth. I couldn’t salvage it, it had been thoroughly digested when I pried the beast’s stomach open and fished it out,” Julian says and presses his lips into a thin line. 

“Idiot,” Yennefer scowls, but her eyes are smiling. “Come I’ll make you a new one.” 

“That means we’re good? It’s all water under the bridge? Best friends forever?” 

“ _ Jaskier _ .”

“What? Are you mayhaps still mad at me? I’m really truly sorry Yenna, please--”

“Jaskier please for the love of chaos shut up. We’re good.”


	2. The Flying Rabbit Inn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> -Geralt and Ciri get their glamours  
> -Julian meets a nice and polite innkeeper

Geralt is pacing in Yennefer’s grand living room. He’s restless and it’s understandable really. While this innkeeper idea is actually quite brilliant and gods know the young princess deserves some peace and normalcy but… But there are quite many logistics and details now that he thinks about it.

Firstly, he’ll have to buy or build an inn. In a place. Somewhere that will accept them. Hmmm. Does he have the coin to buy and furnish an entire establishment? Well, he certainly has a small fortune gathered during the long years he spent on the Path but is it going to be enough to fund an entire business? And how much do buildings cost anyway? He hasn’t really paid attention to the very complex and highly nonsensical economy of the Northern Kingdoms.

Hmm. Fuck. This is going to be harder than he initially expected it to be. 

Well. He supposes he might be able to get Yennefer’s thoughts and valuable input on this. 

And speaking of the devil, Yennefer approaches him with an obviously amused expression plastered on her face. “Geralt,” she drawls and reaches to a nearby cabinet for a bottle of wine, “Care to join me?” 

Geralt grunts in approval and seats himself on the velvet couch opposite of the sorceress. 

“You’re worrying too much,” Yennefer states, swirling slowly the wine in her glass with the motion of her wrist. She takes a sip once she’s satisfied with her work, “Listen, it’s not that hard. I happen to own a two-storey building in the most picturesque Creydeni town. No, don’t give me that look Geralt, you’re my friend and I’ll help you as much as I can.” 

“You’re already helping with the glamours, Yen,” Geralt takes a big sip from his fancy crystal wine glass. Mmmm… Not a bad wine. Definitely too bitter for his taste but not bad all in all.

Yennefer rolls her eyes, “I’m not going to give you the house Geralt. I’m thinking more of a… partnership if you might,” she pauses and waits for his reaction. Geralt cocks an eyebrow prompting her to elaborate. “The house hasn’t been lived in… gods, thirty years -- it’s a bit of a fixer-upper so to say. I provide the house, you fix it, we split the profit. What do you think?”

That’s… That’s actually a very good solution for his problems. Having a business partner means he won’t have to shoulder every possible problem that arises by himself and splitting the profit is hardly a big setback for this. Plus, Yennefer mentioned the house and soon to be inn, is located in Creyden which means he might find the chance to pay queen Renfri a visit. It’s been many years since they last saw each other and communication via letters can only do so much. 

So, he nods and with a small lopsided smile he says, “We have a deal.”

“Geralt? Geralt…?” Ciri’s voice echoes anxiously from Yennefer’s spare bedroom, where she’d been resting after the ambush. Geralt can already smell the salt of her tears in the air so he rushes to her side.

The girl is shaking, sobbing and frantically looking around the unfamiliar room. “I’m here Ciri,” Geralt says hugging her tightly, “I’m here.”

“I- I thought… I thought,” she sobs, big tears running down her cheeks. 

Geralt hums low and rubs small circles on her back. “I’m here,” he repeats, “you didn’t hurt me, cub. I’m a witcher. I’m resilient.”

Ciri breaks away from the hug and stares right into Geralt’s eyes, sniffling softly. “You survived my shout,” she states, her expression shifting until it settles on curiosity mixed with relief.

Geralt nods, “I told you, witchers are resilient, little cub.” 

“Where are we?” 

“Yennefer’s house,” Geralt responds with a small smile, “She’s a friend and she’ll help us out.” 

“Speaking of helping out,” Yennefer graciously enters the room holding a couple of decorative bands in her hands, “Both of your glamours are ready. Want to try them out?” 

“Glamours?” Ciri asks quizzically. 

“To appear, human,” Geralt points on himself and then points at Ciri, “To hide your chaos.” 

“We’ll be safe from Nilfgaard? What will we do? Where will we go? Will we stay here?” 

Yennefer chuckles at her barrage of questions, “I like your child-surprise Geralt dear. She’s a smart one.” The sorceress moves closer and gives a glamour to each of them. Geralt studies the band; it’s silver with leather binding, inconspicuous enough, that it won’t draw any attention. It’s something a friend or a spouse would gift someone for their birth celebration. And the best part is, it doesn’t even smell of chaos which means it won’t give their identities away should a chaos user accidentally come close to them (not that he’ll allow such a thing to happen in the first place, of course).

“What are you waiting for? Try it on! Both of you!,” Yennefer prompts, “I’m honestly curious to see how you would have looked as a human Geralt.” 

Geralt hums noncommittally and ties the band around his wrist. He feels the tendrils of chaos changing him, covering up his scar tissue, replacing it with unmarred pale skin. It’s less deathly pale than he remembers it being, but still moderately pale, riddled with a million little freckles. Huh. That’s odd. 

He looks at Ciri, who has no physical changes on her, only the absence of the strong scent of ancient chaos. The girl locks eyes with him and her jaw drops slightly. “You’re a redhead,” she whispers, “we have the same eye colour.” 

Geralt mouths a ‘What’ and moves to the closest mirror; a full-body one Yennefer keeps next to a large mahogany wardrobe. He examines his features meticulously. Yes, the angles and sharp edges of his face are the same. Yes, he’s the same height, same posture, same strong stature. But he’s so different, so very different. Orange hair falls in curls around his freckled face, emerald green eyes staring back. It’s been so long he’s forgotten his original hair colour, colour the trials stripped from him. 

“Hmmm… I might have to make some adjustments to Cirilla’s glamour,” Geralt barely registers Yennefer’s voice, “Might weave a little extra glamour to make that ashen hair look more like yours.”

“That’s a great idea!” Ciri chirps in, “We’ll look more like father and daughter like that. No one will look twice our way!” 

“Now the only thing left is for me to portal you to Tancarville, Creyden,” Yennefer murmurs. 

* * *

Julian’s on his way to Kovir to spend the winter in Kaer Seren with his little remaining brethren, taking all the contracts he can find before winter settles in. He’s passing through Creyden currently, the lovely little kingdom in the north. It’s a pretty place, all high mountains and forests with incredibly tall trees. No idea what said trees are called, but he likes them. Not many bushes for monsters to hide in. Which means more big monsters, which means more coin. 

He gazes at the distance, bringing Buttercup into a slow gait. His eyes spy smoke rising lazily to the sky from what must be several tens of chimneys, obviously attached to several tens of houses. 

The day is still only beginning and he could ask the town’s mayor or alderman if there’s a contract on a gryphon or a wyvern nearby. Could be a good excuse to spend some time in the village. He could, of course, wear the glamour Yennefer made for him but he’s worried he might cross paths with one of his brothers this time of the year. They won’t let him hear the end of it if they ever find out about his other persona. Especially Coën. In summer he’d gladly make an appearance as Jaskier but not this close to winter and his home. 

Anyhow, the plan as of now is to ask for a contract and secure a room at a nice inn. He really hopes this time he’ll actually get a room and not a bunch of hay for a bed in the stable. Well, no matter, he’ll find out soon enough. 

He enters the village, carefully, walking next to Buttercup trying to draw as little attention as he can. To his surprise no one even bats an eye at him, the villagers preoccupied with their daily routine, the children playing with ragdolls and balls made of fabric. 

_ That is certainly odd.  _

He approaches a woman that’s walking his way and asks her for directions to the inn. The woman’s gaze lingers for a bit on his face and when he’s certain she will start screaming or yelling profanities at him she just smiles and points him in the right way. She even waves a polite goodbye. 

_ What a strange town. _

He won’t complain though. Well, one of his brothers might have done something that made the villagers change their opinion on witchers? Saved the town from a particularly nasty evil? Perhaps. 

So, he beelines for the inn, dropping Buttercup off at the nearest stables on the way. 

The two-story building looks like it has seen better times and Julian’s eyes spot a man mending one of its walls. Could be the innkeeper. Well, no harm asking him directly for a room. 

Julian approaches, making sure to make his presence known and as the man turns to face him Julian’s heart skips a beat.  _ Melitele’s tits, that's a handsome man alright!  _ Neck length curly ginger hair frame gorgeous sharp features. Wide back and strong arms glistening in the morning sun from the sweat of his labour. It makes his mouth run dry. 

There are times like this he regrets not going fulltime as a bard. 

“Uh... Ah… Is this the inn?” he asks the handsome man smoothly. Good job Julian. It’s not like there’s a sign hanging above the door depicting the fluffiest winged rabbit he’s ever seen and written under it in clear lettering ‘The flying rabbit Inn’. 

The man grunts and nods, wiping the sweat off his forehead with a forearm, “Need a room?” he asks in a deep raspy baritone. 

_ Gods, even his voice is gorgeous!  _

“Need a contract and a room both. Do you know of any beast that needs slaying here in the area? Gryphon, wyvern anything? Even a drowner would be fine,” Julian babbles nervously. 

“No contracts around here I’m afraid,” the innkeeper presses his lips into a thin line and draws his eyebrows close together as if he wished for a contract to exist, “You’re welcome to stay though. Have plenty of rooms vacant this time of the year.” 

“Uh... I- I’ll consider it, thank you…” he trails off and after a few long seconds of awkward silence, he asks the question that’s been swirling on his mind from the moment he entered this strange little town, “Why are you so nice to me? I mean, everyone here is so, so--”

“Accepting?” the innkeeper raises a thick brow, “Decent human beings?” 

“Exactly!” he exclaims a bit louder than he was calculating he would. 

The innkeeper snorts a laugh. _ Gods above he’s adorable. _ “I can’t speak for me because I’ve always respected the work you witchers do but for the rest of the town… That’d be my daughter’s handiwork. She makes really compelling arguments,” he half-explains.

_ Daughter… _ Oh… He’s married then. And there he was, thinking he might have a chance with the man.

Not a moment later a young girl, around fifteen summers old, hair as warm and coppery as the innkeeper’s, rushes out of the door mop in hand and yelling frustrated. 

“What is it, cub?” the innkeeper asks her.

“Marco that bloody drunkard spilt ale on the floor again! Again, dad! And I had just mopped the blasted thing!” the girl groans. 

The innkeeper sighs deeply, "I'll take care of it Elen, take a break, you deserve it." 

The girl, Elen claps her hands, "Fantastic! I'll be at Anita's!" She turns to face Julian, "Have a nice stay mister witcher!" 

“Speaking of ‘stay’,” the innkeeper tilts his head slightly, “Will you be staying…” The innkeeper drags the last word prompting Julian to share his name. Never before has a human wanted to learn his name and Julian’s heart feels warm and fuzzy. 

“Julian,” he responds quickly, “Julian of Redania… of the Griffins... is the name,” he lifts and shows his medallion as he speaks, “And yes, I’d love to stay a night at your lovely establishment. Will be a good and much needed break from the Path. Thank you, sir innkeeper.”

“G-- Eric, the name’s Eric,” the man --Eric-- extends a hand waiting for a handshake which Julian reciprocates, “Now, come in, let me show you to your room, Julian.” 

Julian follows Eric --lovely Eric-- inside thinking he might want to return to this lovely town after the snows have thawed. Perhaps even…  _ yes, it’s a brilliant idea! _ He will come back as Jaskier and offer free entertainment as a sort of thank you to the lovely handsome innkeeper and his family. 

Yes, it’s a good plan. He’ll do that. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the support yall showing on this fic <3  
> Your comments make me so happy! 
> 
> I'm very excited to be writing this AU and I have so much I wanna show you guys <3 
> 
> BIG BIG THANKS to Cas, Sandy and Danielle for beta-ing and helping with this chapter <3


	3. Ale and Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eric, Julian finds out, is a very nice guy.  
> Julian, Geralt finds out, is a menace.
> 
> Disclaimer: No sausages were hurt during the writing of this fic

It’s been quite a journey to make the inn operational. When Geralt and Ciri got to the little town of Tancarville and saw the state of the house Yennefer was offering… Well, they were less impressed and more worried that the roof was going to give in at any moment. But with lots and lots of hard work and the help of the kindly folk residing in the town the building started looking more like a house and less like an abandoned crypt. 

It was strange at the beginning, walking among humans and not even one throwing Geralt a scrutinising or hateful look. 

Sure there were questions,–quite a lot of them to be honest– in the beginning, but the story Ciri came up with, painting him as a widower ex-soldier trying his best for his kid, shut even the most curious of mouths. 

Speaking of his lovely daughter –Elen, the name she chose for herself– she somehow managed to turn the entire town’s opinion of witchers. Her campaign lasted a good year and even the most disbelieving bigoted shits learned to at least not spit at the poor witchers that visited Tancarville occasionally. That and queen Renfri’s official brand new law, prohibiting lynching regardless of origin. 

Renfri herself hasn’t had the time to visit Geralt’s inn the past year, political turmoil with Nilfgaard’s relentless advance upon the northern borders and what not but she’d promised she’d drop by at the first chance she gets. 

Well, at least she legitimised the existence of ‘Eric du Bellegarde’ and ‘Elen du Bellegarde’ in legal documents and they are now officially considered citizens of Creyden.

So now, a year and some months after that fateful day in Vengerberg, while there are still quite many things that need to be improved –the prime example being the big hole in the wall of one of the not-completely-fixed-rooms– everything seems to settle in place. 

Geralt misses the constant travelling the Path offers but the travellers that end up in his inn have so many stories to tell that he manages to soothe his neverending wanderlust. 

He still does his job as a witcher from time to time even though he is aware that if someone caught sight of him he might get Ciri and him into trouble. That’s why he only hunts at the deepest darkest nights and only when a monster wanders too close to the little town they now permanently reside in. 

It’s enough action to calm this itching in his soul. After all. 

Anyhow, this current day is a special one. It’s the first time a witcher other than his brothers from the wolf school, Eskel and Lambert, visits Tancarville looking for a contract. He’s of the school of the Griffin and while Geralt wants to believe that he knows a good number of witchers that are still alive and on the Path, he knows for sure he hasn’t heard of this specific one that came to his humble establishment. 

Julian of Redania is his name and he’s a bit of a colourful fellow. Literally. Sure, his armour and twin swords yell Griffin school but the dark pink chemise that shows beneath, the little studded earrings that adorn his ears… They indicate a man of a certain style and upbringing. 

After a brief discussion with the rather talkative and bright bubbly witcher, Geralt shows him to his room –a spacious one with its own tub– and returns to his tasks. 

Cleaning, cooking, glaring at drunk patrons until they leave and stop making such a goddamn mess. 

Fucking drunks. 

To be honest, Geralt longs to have a conversation with this Julian, learn news of the Path, of monsters fought and defeated. But he’ll have to do so, as to not raise any suspicion on his true identity. Can’t have a stranger know of his not quite human and actually very mutant nature, can he?

Well, they’ll have time to discuss things once the witcher finishes the bath Geralt drew for him. Only thing Geralt has to do is remember that innkeepers know shit all about monsters.

* * *

Julian is amazed by the quality of the room the innkeeper leads him to. It’s spacious, it has a big wooden tub that Eric filled with hot water in a ridiculously short amount of time, a whetstone to sharpen his swords and on top of it all, it’s well decorated too! Well, sort of. It’s apparent the amenities such as the towel and the general cross-stitched decorations were made by a child’s hand. Julian suspects that it’s Elen’s handiwork that Eric proudly displays.

He won’t complain of course, even if the towel is rough, awfully colour coordinated –seriously, those brown and blue shades do not go together– and is full of bumpy knots. Julian thinks it’s sweet that the innkeeper chooses to use his daughter’s creations in his inn. 

Speaking of the innkeeper and his family, Julian is curious to meet the elusive wife he’s heard absolutely nothing about. Hell, it’s like the woman doesn’t exist at all. Not a single mention on those cute ‘me and my dad’ cross-stitched pictures that decorate the wall of his room. 

Now that he thinks about it it’s not an uncommon thing, the lack of a wife. Abandoned, divorced or widowed, all are acceptable options for the handsome innkeeper. 

Oh, how Julian hopes Eric is single. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t interested in the handsome redhead.

_ Those arms are to die for. _

Julian ends up daydreaming for quite some time soaking in the lukewarm bathwater. In fact, he daydreams for so long he has to heat the water with Igni once. It’s then that he realises he should probably head downstairs and get himself a nice meal, possibly also striking an engaging conversation with Eric. 

Yes, that sounds nice.

So swiftly, he dresses in his simple clean orange chemise and dark brown leather pants and makes his way to the ground floor of the inn that serves as an all-day tavern. 

There he sees the innkeeper grabbing an obviously very inebriated man by the arm and practically dragging him outside.

The innkeeper grunts and closes the door behind him wiping his hands at the cloth that hangs from his belt. His gaze meets Julians and Eric gestures at the bar, prompting for Julian to join him there. 

Julian musters all of his cool because, damnit, that gorgeous man is not good for his fragile witcher heart and traverses the tavern indifferent --alright not so indifferently but he’s not skipping and that’s considered cool in his book-- and seats himself at the corner most stool on the bar. 

* * *

Geralt watches as the witcher’s movements with curious eyes as the man practically skips merrily, humming a low tune under his breath and seats himself at the corner most stool of the bar. He’s a happy fellow, he’ll give him that. 

Geralt cleans the bar area before the witcher with a wet rug and brings him a flagon of ale. “On the house,” he says simply and settles to organising the counters on the wall behind him.

“Thank you, Eric,” Julian smiles a reluctant toothy smile, quickly snapping his mouth shut when he realises what he did. Hmmm. It isn’t easy being a witcher, Geralt knows. Most people would get scared shitless whenever he made the mistake of showing his canines to the unsuspecting village folk. He breathes deeply. Those days are behind him and he does not miss them. Interactions with humans as a human being so much easier. A small part of his mind gnaws at him, reminding him that it was not always bad, being a witcher. 

Nevertheless, he breaks that particular intrusive little bastard of a thought and moves closer to where Julian sits, “So Julian,” he starts, “Can I get you something to eat? Got some fresh sausages from the butcher’s today,” he offers and scans the witcher sitting opposite of him, watching how his dark orange eyes lighten up --seeming warmer red now-- at the mention of food. 

Hmm… Julian’s certainly way too expressive for a witcher. The steel mask of neutrality that all the witchers Geralt’s met in his lifetime are always carrying, seems to be missing from this particularly peculiar man. He’s left to wonder who might have made him shed his defences or if he’s truly that young fresh of the Path, still not moulded in the cold monster killing machine witchers are supposed to be. 

“Eric?” Julian’s voice yanks him back to reality once more, “Eric? Everything alright? You looked lost for a moment there.” 

Geralt grunts, “I apologise. Now, would you like to eat? I’m afraid I didn’t hear your response the first time.”

Julian chuckles a melodic laugh, “It’s alright, happens to the best of us. Yes, I’d love a plate of those sausages you mentioned”

“Bloody?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Do you like them bloody?” Geralt clarifies, “A lot of witchers passing through prefer meat on the bloodier side.” Geralt included, but he’s not going to offer this information freely. Julian nods and Geralt says moving to the little hearth at the corner behind the bar to prepare the meal, “Right, they will be done shortly.”

“Can I ask you a question, Eric?”

“Hm?”

“Did any others from my school pass through here?” Julian asks, “Griffins I mean.”

Geralt almost mentions Coen but the Griffin didn’t really pass through Tancarville but he did cross paths with Geralt once at a hunt during the time Geralt’s been operating the inn. But he can't say that. Coen is a bright man and if Julian mentions a random innkeeper claiming he stayed at a random inn in Crayden, only a few kilometres away from where he met Geralt two months ago? 

Well, that’s a recipe for failure. 

So he settles for a simple shake of the head. Geralt watches as Julian’s mouth forms in disappointment and quickly adds, “Wolves passed through though. Not too long ago.” 

“Oh,” Julian arches a brow, “Do you remember their names? I might know them.”

“A - a loud fellow named Lambert and a quiet one named Eskel,” he responds and prays that he doesn’t slip up any information Eric has no business in knowing. 

“Oh I know Lambert,” Julian says a smug smile forming on his lips, “Did he have his boyfriend with him when he visited? The Cat, Aiden? Tall, dark, handsome… A half-elf witcher.”

“Aiden? His b- boyfriend?! Took him long enough!” Geralt blurts out a bit too loud. Fuck. Fuck. And fuck again. 

“You know them both,” Julian states in realisation, eyes wide and curious. 

Geralt sighs audibly, “I’ve known Lambert ever since I was a young man,” he settles for a half-truth. He’s not good at outright lying without having time to plan and let the lie spread its roots in his brain. “Had a bet when he’d man up and ask Aiden out,” also a truth, ”Bastard owes me a good coin, I tell you. He was sure they’d never get together,” truth as well. 

“Oh ho ho! Fraternising with Witchers from a young age,” Julian laughs truly this time, all reservation he was holding gone. 

Geralt smiles and snorts a laugh, “You could say that.” 

They end up talking for hours, Julian reciting the adventures he shared with Lambert during the years. The shit his brother’s pulled is unimaginable and Geralt finds himself more often than not exclaiming a ‘Whaaat’ or ‘It didn’t happen, I don’t believe you. He’ll have to have several words with Lambert the next time they meet and also quite possibly pull him into a tight hug because damn it’s a miracle this bastard’s still alive and kicking. 

At some point Julian mentions Coen and the fact that they are roughly the same age -- so around Geralt’s age,  _ good to know, _ he files away that little fact -- and starts reminiscing his childhood at Kaer Seren, well into his sixth flagon of ale. 

Geralt knows for a fact the witcher is not as drunk as he wants others to think he is but he humours him until late at night and way past bedtime. 

He goes to bed happy, the good conversation and good company having soothed the hollow in his soul caused by the absence of the Path. 

* * *

Julian looks back at the small town of Tancarville and smiles. What a lovely place, he thinks. His determination to return to the town, and more precisely to the inn and the gorgeous innkeeper, stronger than the day before. 

Come spring he’ll visit as Jaskier and stay a week or more. That’s settled. Set in stone. There’s nothing that will keep him from these plans. 

But for now, he has his brothers waiting for him at their crumbling keep, good vodka and the occasional game of Gwent. 

It’s not much, but he wouldn’t trade it for the world.   
  


* * *

* * *

Innkeeper verse art : 

[here](https://brothebro.tumblr.com/post/628634864671916032/innkeeperskier-in-the-fire-palette) [here](https://brothebro.tumblr.com/post/627093287567769600/innkeeper-geralt-au-witcher-jaskier-btw) [here](https://brothebro.tumblr.com/post/626994989489127424/here-have-a-treat-of-humangeralt-from-my-fic)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR ALL THE NICE COMMENTS IN THE LAST CHAPTER<3 
> 
> I'm back from vacation, life is being particularly bitchy, but what can you do.  
> But hey! I'm writing and all is well :D 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this lil chapter of the bois getting to know each other <3 
> 
> I wanna thank my friend StarsInMyDamnEyes for beta reading this chapter <3 couldn't have finished it without ya <3 
> 
> <3


	4. The Griffins aren't as noble as the stories say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We peer a bit into the winter lives of Geralt and Julian  
> More witchers visit the inn.

The winter in Creyden is always harsh and cold. The little town of Tancarville stays buried under a heavy blanket of white for months at end. 

Geralt feels especially disconnected when the snow is thick and bountiful. He gazes at the frozen landscape from the window of the almost always empty inn. He gazes and reminiscences the winters spent in Kaer Morhen, amongst his peers, his brothers. He misses them on these kinds of days. He misses them dearly.

It’s days like these that his wanderlust screams at him, tugs and pushes him to the call of the Path. He knows it’s not wise to listen to it, so he doesn’t; he just shoves it deep in the darkest corners of his mind. 

It’s these days that he misses being a witcher the most. The fact that no witcher passes through the sleeping town at this time of the year does not help. At least during the rest of the seasons, he can learn of places far away, of monsters ferocious and dangerous, of adventure. 

The last witcher that passed through his inn was Julian. He was an interesting man to talk to, so different than most witchers he’s crossed passed with before. 

But still, that was months ago. 

Ciri can somehow always tell when he’s having a day like this. She offers to go for a walk, even with the bone-freezing temperatures and heavy snow, and he accepts. It never fails to alleviate his spirits. 

The girl, his daughter, is impossibly bright and insightful -- something he quickly found out. She shares his love of weapons and armed combat, and he’s glad he has an excuse to hone his witcher training, at the very least. 

It’s nice, having someone that understands him. 

Today is a cold winter’s day. Cold and dreary... and yet, having guessed the thoughts that swirl and fester in his mind, Ciri pulls him out of his slump and drags him to the woods. 

She packs her training swords with her and urges him to train her with her.

“Train me as you would train a witcher,” she tells him.

He smiles and grabs the sword she gently tosses at him. “You’ll regret it, little swallow,” he says. 

She smirks and sasses, “No,  _ dad _ , you’re the one who’s going to regret it.”

“Cocky rascal,” he chuckles and moves forward to attack, swiping wide and predictably. Ciri parries the blow with ease. 

She clicks her tongue and tilts her head, “Take me seriously, please.”

“Alright, alright.”

* * *

Julian managed to make it to Kaer Seren, dead last again. The crumbling keep is more of a big hall and nothing else, really, and the four remaining --himself included-- Griffin witchers all live together in said room. Needless to say, it gets rather cramped sooner or later. 

An effort to rebuild some of the keep has been ongoing for many years. But, due to their numbers rapidly dwindling, they've all but given up. They still care for that one hall they all reside, because, let’s be realistic for a moment, no witcher can survive amongst humans in the winters. There are not many that would tolerate them. He has his glamour, but his brothers?

Red hair and green eyes flash in Julian’s mind. Eric, he would tolerate them. No, he would accept them all, no questions asked. Eric is a genuinely good man. Julian might have known him for only a day; but, what a day it was! 

The innkeeper was so knowledgeable and smart and kind.  _ And so incredibly handsome _ , his mind provides. 

Julian learned a lot about the man in one day. Good ale and good company really work well in making tongues loose. Eric, it seems, used to be a soldier of sorts, perhaps even a general, his vast knowledge on weaponry tactics and fighting proves so. He never admitted anything himself -- the man was impossibly frugal with his words -- but Julian could tell from context. 

Julian could also tell that the man knew very little about running a business, but damn was he trying hard. And that’s something Julian respects in people. 

_ He wants to go back to the inn, he wants to keep talking to the handsome red-head.  _

Julian sighs audibly. 

“Uh-oh, somebody is in love!” Erland of Larvik, his father-surprise and master of the Griffin hall --keep is a too fancy word for a single room, really-- says to him, interrupting his thoughts, “Come on Julek, I’ve been waiting for your move for aeons,” the older Griffin gestures at the Gwent cards arranged in formations on the small battered wooden table. 

_ Ah, right. _ They were playing this godsforsaken game again. 

“Right, right, love,” he mutters absentmindedly, his voice barely audible, “you should have seen him with your own eyes.” Julian plays two random cards, not paying attention in the slightest at what Erland has played. 

“Hey! If you’re gonna continue playing  _ bullshit  _ let’s stop,” Erland smacks him playfully on the arm, “Now tell me, who caught your eye this time, son?”

“Yeah, come on Julek, tell us!” Coën pipes in from the furthermost corner of the room, that’s been made into an impromptu kitchen.  _ The venison roast already smells delicious.  _

"Keep it to yourself, Julian. I don't fucking care about your love life,” Yorik, the youngest of the lot, says not lifting his eyes from the heavy tome he’s reading. Julian steals a glance at the book; a thick boring bestiary. Yorik is as fun as always. 

“Too bad, Yorik! I’ll tell you everything. I shall not leave a single detail out! Hah!” Julian gets up and puts a foot on the table, moving into his storytelling pose. 

“And that’s how you make him talk, fools,” Yorik snaps his book shut and turns his chair to face Julian. 

“Rude,” Julian huffs out at the younger witcher. 

“What can I say, I learned from the best. Now spill the story.”

And so he does. 

* * *

It’s a complete and utter disaster! Julian should have known better and kept one certain handsome and kind innkeeper a secret. But noooooo! He had to tell his fellow Griffins everything.  _ Every single thought. _ From Eric’s uncertain marital status to the fair prices and great inn, to the lovely town and its polite inhabitants.

And of course, _ of fucking course _ , they are curious. 

And of course, they followed him to Tancarville. All except Yorik who, it seems, truly didn’t give a flying shite and left Kaer Serren far too early, long before the snows started to properly thaw.

_ Julian’s sometimes worried for the kid. _

Now Julian has two very persistent, curious and determined Griffins on his tail. He’s been fruitlessly trying to lose them the past two weeks but damn are they good at foiling his every feint, every attempt at shaking them off. 

Damn their competence as witchers! 

_ And his incompetence at hiding his trail properly.  _

He wanted to go back to Tancarville as Jaskier the bard, have an excuse to stay more, and also repay Eric for his kindness in the form of cheap --no, free -- entertainment. But he can’t do that with those bloody hounds that follow his every step. 

So he stops this ridiculous game of hide-and-seek and resigns himself to his fate. He’ll endure a day with Erland and Coën, satisfy their curiosity and when they split paths he’ll return to the “flying rabbit inn” as Jaskier. Yes, that could hypothetically work. 

They are only hours away from Tancarville when he halts Buttercup and waits for the other two Griffins to catch up with him. 

“Good,” Erland’s voice echoes from somewhere behind him, “This game was starting to become ridiculous.” 

“Ugh, you’re both insufferable,” Julian groans and guides Buttercup into a slow trot, “Follow me and for the love of Melitele don’t embarrass me in front of Eric.”

“That, I can’t promise,” Erland laughs, and Coën hisses at him to behave. “Fine, fine… I’ll stray away from baby Julian stories, I promise,” the older witcher raises his hands in a placating manner. 

After this, the ride to Tancarville is mostly silent. Julian catches himself humming a jaunty tune once or twice but the incredulous look Coën shoots him is enough to shut him up. Right, he sometimes forgets his fellow Griffins are in the dark about his more… musical nature. 

Jaskier is a secret and for a good reason too. It’s simple arithmetics really; the more people know of his alternate person, the more likely it is for them to slip up and cost him his dream career. 

Anyhow, Tancarville is approaching rapidly -- or rather they approach the town -- the stone and wooden buildings visible in the horizon. 

It’s still extremely early in the morning --the roosters only now starting to cry-- and Julian idly wonders if the innkeeper will be awake at such an unholy hour. 

It doesn’t take long for him to find out because there he is, Eric, dressed in thick winter clothes -- a gorgeous ice blue fur-lined jacket and dark grey pants-- chopping wood outside the inn. His brow is furrowed and every swing of the axe is more violent than the last, as if the wood had personally offended him, Julian notices. He wonders who wronged the man to issue such intense anger. 

Well, whoever wronged the gorgeous man is gonna get a very righteous witcher on his bad side. And that’s something no human would like. 

Julian waves reluctantly at Eric, who’s attention snaps at the three witchers. His brilliant green eyes become impossibly wide. 

Well, shit. They scared him, didn’t they?

“I’m sorry if this is a bad time--” Julian starts saying but is cut off by Erland laughing merrily. 

“Aren’t you gonna wake the missus, chopping wood this early sir innkeeper?” Erland says with a shit-eating grin. Julian narrows his eyes at him. Bloody bastard is doing that on purpose, isn’t he?

Julian is, of course, curious to hear Eric’s answer but that doesn’t stop him from hissing, “Father! Please.” 

Eric seems to appraise the witchers before him for a moment before answering, “Can’t wake up the dead.”

Julian is conflicted; he doesn’t know whether to be relieved or sad for the widower innkeeper. He’ll go with  _ relieved  _ this time. 

Erland extends his hand to the innkeeper. “I apologize for my assumption, sir. Erland of Larvik, grandmaster of the Griffin witchers,” Erland says, a crooked smile plastered on his smug face, “heard so much about your establishment mister Du Bellegarde! I believe your ale is to die for.”

Eric cocks an eyebrow and makes no move to shake Erland’s hand. His eyes move from Erland to Julian, avoiding Coën altogether. Strange. 

“Julian,” Eric says, in that deep, scratchy, baritone Julian spent all winter recalling in his mind, “Welcome. You brought friends, I see.” 

“Not as much brought but rather they bloody followed me across two kingdoms, but that’s not important now I guess,” Julian says, between clenched teeth. 

“He wouldn’t shut up about how great this place is,” Coën pipes in, “and we're a naturally curious bunch.”

“So here we are,” Julian huffs out a tired laugh. 

“Hmm. Very well, come inside before you freeze,” Eric smiles reluctantly. “I’ll stable your horses,” he adds after a small pause. 

"I'll help," Coën offers, and Julian can discern the discomfort Eric emanates. Perhaps he had previously misjudged the innkeeper and the man was indeed afraid of witchers much like most humans. Or perhaps, there was another reason altogether for his strange reactions.

"It's alright," Eric quickly responds, "I can manage three horses." 

"No no, please, I want to help," Coën presses. Julian narrows his eyes at him, uncertain why his brother's so insistent on helping.

He ends up being dragged by Erland by the arm inside the warm homely inn, hoping Coën doesn't give Eric a hard time.

* * *

Geralt has been having a terrible week. First, the merchant that was supposed to bring him the new shipment of ale swindled him. The shipment was supposed to be high quality Kaedweni ale but what he got, upon inspection, was a watered-down Poviss piss, as Lambert liked to call it. 

Secondly, Yennefer was late for her bi-monthly visit to tutor Ciri on chaos use and that was making his nerves flare up from worry. The sorceress was never late. Never. Which means only one thing; something horrible must have happened. 

He really hopes there’s no repeat of Sodden’s battle. Yennefer is a dear friend he’s known for as long as-- well, now that he thinks about it, he’s known her for almost as long as he’s been a witcher. He knows she’s very powerful and a force to be reckoned with but… she’s still only human. 

He just hopes she’s alive and well and her delay is because of other mundane reasons. 

So when Julian appears one dreadfully cold morning, with an unknown Griffin and Coën in tow, he’s not sure how to react. 

He’s almost excited by the prospect of spending some time amongst other witchers, to take his mind away from all the bad intrusive thoughts telling him of Yennefer’s demise. But... 

But Coën is there. A Griffin whom he’s known for many years now. The man has even spent some winters in Kaer Morhen with them as per Vesemir’s request. He’s a friend. He’s a brother. And he’ll surely see through Geralt’s glamour. 

Fuck. 

That’s why he keeps a low profile, speaks as little as he can and tries --and fails-- to isolate himself from the witchers, offering to stable their horses. 

Alas, Coën follows him closely, the light of recognition flickering in his golden eyes. 

Well, Geralt has never been great at lying but he’ll try to guard Ciri’s and his secret with his life. He’s almost positive Coën can be trusted, but if there is a tiny smidge of a chance he’ll run his mouth and invite danger? He can’t risk that. Not for him but for his daughter. 

So he’ll lie as best as he can, pretend he doesn’t know him. 

Geralt guides the strong witcher mounts to the stables he built for his customers, filled with warm hay and plentiful food. He passes next to Roach who winnies when she sees him and he places a hand on her muzzle stroking the soft fur in order to calm her. 

“She’s a beautiful thing,” Coën says, locking eyes with Geralt, “What’s her name?” 

“Roa-nch,” fuck his inability to lie when needed. Fuck. “Roanch,” he repeats, trying to sound as natural as he can muster. 

“Roanch,” Coën echoes, his stare blank, “But she’s a chestnut, not a roan?”

“My daughter thought it was funny,” Geralt rushes to answer and Coën seems to believe that. He almost sighs in relief.

Geralt moves to untack and settle the horses to their respective stables when he feels a strong grip on his arm. He turns and faces Coën, his expression unreadable. 

“Why are you here, Geralt? Pretending to be human?” he asks and Geralt feels his heart drop to his stomach. 

Fuck. 

“Name’s Eric,” he says but he can feel that his lie isn't in the slightest believable. It sounds forced even to him. 

“Cut the crap,” Coën hisses, “I know it’s you. A cheap glamour can’t fool me, I’ve known you for years, brother.”

Geralt sighs, “Then you surely understand I have a reason I am here.”

“It’s the kid, isn’t it?” Coën asks, “The kid Julian mentioned, when he told us about you this winter. Elen.”

Geralt swallows audibly. How perceptive is this man even? He slowly nods. 

“Do the other wolves know?”

“They do,” Geralt responds and quickly adds, “You can’t tell anyone, Coen. Please.”

Coën regards him for a brief moment, golden eyes filled with worry. “I won’t,” he responds firmly, “I’m not stupid, Geralt. I can tell when something is important.” he looks, almost, pained. 

“Your brothers included,” Geralt adds, “Don’t tell them.”

“Those two fools? Yeah, no. Don’t worry, I wasn’t planning to. They are nice but they are both blabbermouths. I don't think they’d be able to keep a secret even if they wanted to. So be careful with them, alright?” Coën leans in for a hug and pats Geralt’s back. 

“Thanks for the head’s up,” Geralt murmurs.

“Now,” Coën says, breaking the hug, “I believe some nice ale is in order.”

“I wouldn't serve you that ale even if it was the last ale on the Continent,” Geralt huffs out. “But I have some nice Est Est, if you want?”

“That sounds excellent, thank you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, Kim is a blessing and I thank her dearly for beta-ing this chapter <3 (she also did some awesome [fanart of innkeeperalt and innkeeperskier I will be sharing ](https://brothebro.tumblr.com/post/629217381707841536/kim-holy-heck-thats-amazing-and-gorgeous-and-i) <3) 
> 
> Secondly, thank you for the kind comments! They make my quarantined days -- or well, social distancing days if I want to be correct. 
> 
> Thirdly, hope u enjoyed this chapter, I certainly had a lot of fun writing it! 
> 
> Ps. Yorik is a good lad and we'll see him again  
> Ps. Ps. Coen has been very fun to write.


	5. Jaskier the humble bard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt meets Jaskier  
> Jaskier is terrible at flirting

Julian rides his horse for a day and a half, splitting paths halfway with Erland and Coën. When he’s sure there is no chance they will follow him – their curiosity about the lovely innkeeper who’s stolen Julian’s heart sated – he starts planning his return to Tancarville. 

First and foremost, he has to leave his horse somewhere, lest he wants Eric to recognise it immediately and give away his carefully crafted cover. He decides he’s going to leave Buttercup at the nearest village on the way to the inn. 

Secondly, he has to rid himself of all witchery evidence and that means his armour and his twin swords. He’ll keep his medallion and stiletto knife though, just in case.  If the stablehand he's going to leave Buttercup with proves to be loyal, there won't be a problem with not having his gear. If not… Well, it won’t be the end of the world, but it’s definitely going to take him a long-ass time to replace his equipment. Witcher grade steel and silver isn't exactly common on the Continent. He might have to pay a visit to a master craftsman like Hatori in Novigrad (he cringes at the thought of having to deal with the –unreliable at best– elf.)

Well, no matter! It’s a risk he’s willing to take. And that’s exactly what he does. 

He also takes care to follow the path around Tancarville through the big dense forest that wraps around the picturesque town in a semicircle. 

Fancy blue doublet donned and lute case hanging on his hip, he skips merrily in the frigid spring weather, smiling to himself every time he comes across a little flower blooming. 

_ Ah, spring is truly the most magnificent of the seasons! _

As Jaskier –as a  _ bard– _ he feels so liberated, so free to enjoy the world around him. Jaskier is the songs and flowers of life; Julian is the swords and grief of death. 

The strong scent of various herbs and flowers burns his sensitive nose at some point and he follows it, stumbling across the most  _ picturesque _ little garden by a small pond. 

There are a lot of alchemical components among the plants used as spices or as teas. He can count at least four Arenaria bushes, and six Celandine roots and even two or three patches with assortments of mushrooms among the mint and mustard plants. Oh! there’s some Fool’s Parsley as well! Lucky! Was this planted by someone? And if yes, by whom? As far as Jaskier knows, there isn’t an alchemist or even a hedge witch living near Tancarville. 

How odd. 

But then perhaps, this is not a man-made garden but a miracle of nature. The plants are, after all, not positioned in a way a person would plant them for maximum efficiency. He’s seen a lot of botanists gardens in his days and this is definitely not one of them. It lacks structure, order.

If so, he really should help himself and gather some flowers used in his potions. They’ll surely be more useful to him than to the wildlife populating the forest. He approaches carefully, looks around just to be sure and grabs his knife meaning to cut some Celandine flowers used for Swallow; perhaps the most useful of his potions. 

“Thief!” A girl's voice sounds from behind some tall bushes. A voice he places as Elen, Eric’s daughter. How did he not notice her? 

Jaskier sniffs the air discreetly.  _ Nope, there’s no human scent mixed in the air. _ Only the faintest aroma of chamomile coming from the bushes. Which means there hasn’t been a person in this particular little clearing for at least two days. 

He drops the knife and flowers nonetheless, raising his hands in a placating manner. 

The girl steps out of the bush, leaves intertwined with her fiery red hair, snarling. 

“I apologise, little lady,” Jaskier says calmly, a small friendly smile painted on his features. 

“What were you doing with Fool’s Parsley?” she barks, the tone of her voice inquisitive, “This is not for you, minstrel! It’s rather poisonous.”

“Ah. It is? I just thought it was pretty.” 

“It literally looks like parsley,” she deadpans.

“B-but it would go so well with the-” Jaskier pauses for a minute, not sure where he was going with that sentence. “Uhm… I suppose it doesn’t matter as I do not wish to poison myself nor steal from your lovely garden. I do apologise again,” he bows slightly, “and I wish you the best in your… gardening endeavours.”

“It’s not my garden,” she defends, “I’m just watching it for a friend.”

This makes sense, Jaskier supposes, why would a young girl such as Elen dabble in poisonous plants and alchemical components anyway? It must belong to a travelling herbalist perhaps, or a healer, a friend of the lovely Bellegarde family. 

“Ah, I see,” he nods in understanding, and she eyes him wearily, “Would you mind showing me the way to the town?” he asks feigning cluelessness. “I was meaning to perform at the tavern, or inn, if they’ll have me,” he gestures at his lute. 

She hums as if measuring the integrity of his intent. “Fine,” she says after a while, “Walk in a straight line in that direction, for about ten minutes and you should see the first cottage. My dad owns “the Flying Rabbit Inn” further up ahead. Can’t miss it, it’s the largest building of the town, aside from the mayor’s manor. I do warn you though, my dad’s rather picky when it comes to music. He might tell you to fuck off if he doesn’t like your performance.”

Jaskier gulps audibly. Well, he hopes Eric will like his songs. He’s very proud of his songwriting and lute-playing, and his singing is quite lovely too if he might be so bold. He’s never been refused a performance before. 

Well… that’s technically an itty-bitty lie. He was, after all, chased out of Posada some twenty-four or something years ago. But he should have known better and not have sung songs about abortions. 

Either way, he’s dilly-dallied a bit too much. Time to see Eric again, and hopefully under favourable circumstances. 

* * *

Geralt is running soothing circles on his temples. Ciri should have returned by now. She convinced him to allow her to go check their secret garden by herself. Fuck. And now she could be dead in a ditch for all he knows.

She’s fifteen, he reminds himself, she can handle herself in a fight. He’s being overprotective, isn’t he? Ciri will give him an earful when she returns. Call him a worry-wart. But then again… If she doesn’t return when he’s finished washing and drying the dirty mugs he’ll go look for her. 

He tries to take his mind off Ciri’s possible demise –  _ she’s fifteen, she’s fine _ , he internally protests his own paranoia – by cleaning the mugs as fast as he can while still remaining believably human. 

The door to the inn flies open and Geralt snaps his gaze on it, expecting to see Ciri’s (glamoured) mop of red hair. Instead… he locks eyes with a young man dressed in an overly fancy blue doublet. 

He regards the man for a brief moment; neck length, wavy, dirty-blond hair, bright blue eyes, a lute case hanging from his side. A bard. 

Geralt returns his attention to the important matter at hand, namely finishing off the cleaning and going after his daughter. 

“I just love how you sit in that corner and brood,” a light musical voice says that Geralt places as the newcomer bard. He glances briefly at him and stands corrected. The man is leaning against the counter, hand propped under his jaw and a ridiculous smile is painted on his lips. 

Geralt suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he responds in his most neutral voice, “Not sitting and not brooding,” he gestures at the pile of mugs and grabs one to clean with the wet cloth he’s holding, “Cleaning.”

The bard hums, “Well, I can see that. So, I’ve heard much of your fame of kicking poor minstrels out of your establishment.” 

He’s heard what now? Geralt prides himself in keeping a light and comfortable atmosphere always in his inn. And more often than not, this entails hiring all sorts of travelling musicians to entertain his patrons. Sure, he doesn’t like more than half of them, as their music grates on his sensitive hearing, but he’s never kicked a single bard out. Never. 

Geralt narrows his eyes and furrows his brows, “Where did you hear that from?”

“I met a young lady at the edge of the woods just outside of town,” the bard explains, straightening his posture and actually sitting on a barstool now. Ciri. Geralt sighs in relief. “Your daughter I believe? She sent me this way after scaring the shit out of me,” the musician chuckles, light and melodic, “She quite literally jumped out of some bushes.”

“Sounds like Elen, alright,” Geralt sighs again. She’ll be in so much trouble when she returns. “I apologise for her behaviour. Contrary to what she might have said, I have never kicked a bard out of my inn.”

The bard smiles widely, which makes the corner of his eyes crinkle ever so slightly, “So… I suppose I’m allowed to perform?” Geralt nods. “Oh! But where are my manners! Jaskier, travelling lutenist and singer,” he extends a hand which Geralt shakes. 

“Eric. Innkeeper, but you probably already knew that. Let’s discuss your payment, shall we?”

The bard – Jaskier – laughs and Geralt raises an eyebrow. “First show is free,” he winks. 

Free? What bard works for free? 

The question must show on his face because Jaskier adds: “Listen, Eric… A friend recommended me your establishment and well, I am doing this as… a thank you, I suppose, for treating my friend well. Of course, if you don’t like my music feel free to–” he gestures abstractly, “–leave me a review. And I’ll be on my way. But if you do end up liking it, we could strike a deal for a week-long performance.” 

Geralt stares at the man surprised. A friend he treated well, he says… A blond trobairitz, one eye hidden behind a mop of curly blond hair comes to his mind. What was her name again? Essi… Essi something. She was a memorable one. Excellent with the lute and with words. He stopped two drunken patrons from harassing her, if he remembers correctly. 

So, Geralt nods, “Deal.” 

“Excellent!” Jaskier claps his hands in excitement, “When do-”

“Dad!” Ciri opens the door with force startling the bard. “Ah, I see the bard found his way here.”

“Elen,” Geralt crosses his arms, “Go clean the room that was vacated this morning.”

“But whyyyy?”

“We need it to be properly clean in case Jaskier stays here tonight, alright?” 

“Ugh. Fine,” she stomps on the ground as she makes her way to the second floor. 

Geralt sighs and turns his attention to the bard once again, “Sorry about that.”

“No need to apologise.”

“Hmm. Either way, you can start now if you want, but it’s still early, and your audience will be Luke,” he gestures at the elderly man who is always in the inn and who’s currently organising his Gwent cards on a big table (he knows his Gwent, Luke), “a grumpy teenager, and me.” 

“I suppose waiting a tad, for more folks to arrive, wouldn’t hurt anyone,” Jaskier muses, “Still, I could play a single song and get your review, now… What do you say?”

“Sure.” 

“Any preferences? Something festive? A slow love ballad perhaps?”

Geralt shrugs, “Whatever you like.” 

“Very well,” the bard rises from his seat and removes his lute from its case – it’s elven-made, to Geralt's surprise, chaos humming from it – and strums the chords softly as he settles into performing. 

Jaskier is… He’s really good. He opens with a slow traditional elven ballad, sung completely in Elder, and with a good accent to boot. 

Geralt feels his eyebrows rising in surprise. The bard seems to be avoiding playing too high on the scale, even though Geralt knows from previous experience that this particular song contains some god-awful high notes that pierce his sensitive ears like needles. This version though… This version is calming, yet strangely beautiful. 

When the song comes to end, Geralt feels empty, the absence of the soft melody offending his mind somehow. How strange. 

“Could you play another?” he finds himself asking. “Maybe  _ The Fishmonger’s Daughter _ ?” This song he knows contains several infuriating high notes in succession – not to mention that the lyrics are utter shit – and that the bard will probably play it as is.

Jaskier’s eyes light up at the mention of this song, “Ah! A Jaskier original composition! Very well!” 

Did he write that terrible song? Fuck. Maybe he’s not as good as Geralt pegged him to be. Good thing he asked for a second song before he made his decision and allowed the man to perform for a whole week in his inn. 

“Oh, Fishmonger~” Jaskier starts singing, strumming the chords merrily. 

It’s different from the last few times Geralt has had the displeasure to listen to this song. The sound is richer, less tacky and more… hmmm… just  _ more.  _ And yet again, there’s this absence of high-notes. 

Good. He can work with that. 

“Very well,” Geralt says with a stern face when the song is finished, trying to hide his excitement that for once there will be a proper, skilled bard performing in his inn. “You can work here.”

* * *

Jaskier is overjoyed that the lovely innkeeper likes his singing; he can see it in Eric’s face, how totally enthralled he is while he performs. He ends up striking a deal for a week-long show. And to top it all off, the pay is phenomenal. Not only will he get board and food for free but also he will get paid a standard ten silver pieces per day. 

He was planning to work only for board and food, and actually insisted on it, but the innkeeper shut him down with a ‘ _ Don’t be ridiculous. You work, you get paid. _ ’ brokering no room for negotiation. 

And so, the days pass in a hurry; as days do when you’re having a blast. Every day he wakes up close to midday and descends the narrow staircase, leaning in the bar and attempting to flirt with the handsome Eric. Every attempt at flirting seems to not register with the red-head at all, the man politely misunderstanding the intents of the pick-up lines and straying off to random topics of conversation. 

The innkeeper is really oblivious, and Jaskier, if he wasn’t Jaskier, would have accepted his fate and stopped. Alas, for the bad luck of everyone within earshot he does not relent and instead tries to find a way to convey to Eric how much he would like to… you know, do the laundry, get busy, plough that field, to… ride without a saddle. Oh, he wants to do the bedroom waltz with the man, for fuck’s sake! 

If the man wants him to stop flirting, he will of course, but so far Eric doesn’t seem to have realised what Jaskier is trying so desperately to do. 

The days pass like this: failed flirting, nice meals and wonderful performances. Jaskier falls a little bit more every day for the kind, pretty green eyes of the innkeeper. The more they talk, the more Jaskier gets to know him, the more he sees the little acts of kindness the man does without expecting anything in return, the more Jaskier’s heart beats for him. 

Soon enough, the last day of his promised stay arrives, and something akin to dread festers in the bard’s stomach. 

He doesn’t want to leave. Not yet. It’s too soon. 

Maybe, if he can convince Eric, he can stay for one more week? He knows he’d love to, but he doesn’t want to overstay his welcome. Not to mention that he has a horse and equipment to collect from one village over. And surely, if he leaves poor Buttercup for one more week alone she’ll never forgive him. 

Two days, he promises himself. Two days more and he’ll leave. Go back to being Julian. Back to the lonely,  _ lonely  _ Path. 

With a confident stride he marches towards the table at which the innkeeper is playing Gwent with grandpapa Luke and announces his presence, “Eric, could I have a word with you once you’re done err… that’s a very rare card you got. I’ve encountered it only once before-”

“Jaskier,” Eric says in a low rumble that makes Jaskier’s cheeks heat up, “Please be quiet. We can talk, after the match.”

“Right. Good. Yeah,” he grabs a chair and straddles it, resting his chin on the top of its back. This Gwent strategy is… unique, to say the least, and if he had his deck with him, Jaskier would love to challenge the innkeeper. For now, though, he can only watch and learn. 

Three rounds later, Eric locks eyes with Jaskier, shuffling his deck of cards mindlessly, “You wanted to talk?”

“Ah, yes. Well,” here goes nothing, “Would it be alright with you if I stayed and performed for a couple more days? It’s been incredibly fun thus far, and as I have no other commitments planned, I thought-”

“Sure. You can stay. The people of Tancarville seem to have taken a liking at you.”

It was that easy. 

“Oh, and you haven't?” Jaskier drawls, still resting his chin on the chair’s back. He knows he’s probably pushing it but at this point, he might as well be bold and fearless. 

Jaskier watches fascinated as a blush creeps up on the innkeeper, making his pale skin a beet red.  _ How cute!  _ “I,” Eric clears his throat, “Your music is very good,” he finally says, eyes fixed on what seems to be a particularly interesting floorboard. “And you’re fun to talk to,” he rushes to add.

Jaskier hums. Now that’s something he can work with. 

As he’s about to continue with a more daring line, the door to the inn opens abruptly and a woman smelling of plants and herbs enters the main hall. 

“Jennifer!” Eric’s eyes light up and he gets up to greet her. “You’re late, my friend. Elen and I got worried.”

“Only  _ you _ got worried dad,” Elen yells from inside the kitchen, “I knew Jenn was alright.”

Jaskier regards the woman with curiosity; her brown skin is splattered with freckles and her curly salt and pepper hair are woven in a loose plait. She’s wearing a green and yellow dress, several pouches hanging from a belt around her midriff. Jennifer glances towards him and smiles, dark eyes shining with something cryptic. 

“The lovely Jennifer-” Luke announces from his seat, making the most animated gestures. 

Jennifer raises her hand and makes a shushing motion with it. Jaskier has never seen a man stay motionless as fast as Luke did. “For the last time I’m not a fucking teeth doctor, old man. I can’t help you with your appalling mouth hygiene, as I am certain you’ll just ignore my advice and will not use the tea I give you to at least soothe the pain of your rotting,” she gestures abstractly, “everything.”

Oh, Jaskier already likes this woman. She’s something fierce he can tell. And she must be the herbalist whose garden he stumbled upon in the forest a week ago. 

Jennifer reminds him a bit of Yenna and gods isn’t that a thought. The two women will get along like a house on fire if they ever meet. Hmmm… And maybe they should meet. He’s sure he could arrange that. 

* * *

Geralt is sad to see the talented bard pack up his things and go. He hesitates a bit, as the joyful, bright man lingers at the doorstep, but in the end, he musters all his courage and asks the question in his mind: “Hope you had a good time at my establishment. Will you come back? Later?” 

The man beams at him, his smile wide, his eyes shining with mirth, “Why of course, Eric! We could arrange a similar arrangement if you like. Maybe… in a month's time? In time for Belleteyn.” 

“Belleteyn is in two months.”

“Then perhaps, I come back in a month and stay until the spring festival is over?” the bard tilts his head playfully, dark blond curls dancing around his pretty face. 

Geralt hums, “Sounds good.”

“Great! See you soon, Eric!” Jaskier waves a hand before he turns his back and starts walking towards the woods.

As soon as the brightly dressed bard is but a shadowy figure on the horizon Yennefer -- or Jennifer as she likes to be called under this glamour -- slides beside him, swirling a glass of wine in her hand. “He’s got it  _ bad  _ for you,” she remarks.

“ _ What _ ,” Geralt deadpans, turning to face her, “Don’t be ridiculous Yen.” 

Geralt is no stranger in flirtatious attempts towards his person. Sometimes it's very hard to turn down the people who show interest in him; a smile too warm, a voice too caring. But he turns them all down, without a single miss. The deception easy on his tongue after so many years of lying about his mutant nature. 'I'm not ready for something like this,' he will say, 'I still love my dead wife.' 

The bard though- sure, the bard was bright and bubbly, a permanent flush adorning his cheeks. Sure, he engaged in playful banter, in intelligent repartees with Geralt. But he did so with everyone. It was nothing special, not like the other people that approached Geralt with the intent of laying with him in the past. 

If Jaskier was flirting with him he would have noticed for fuck’s sake. 

He’s not that oblivious. 

“Gods, you’re impossible,” Yennefer rolls her eyes, “Anyone with eyes could see that the idiot wants you.” 

Geralt hums. She might be onto something, or maybe she’s just seeing things. Who knows? In any case, he has a month in front of him to think through how he wants to approach the situation. 

On one hand, the colourful bard intrigues him and he’d like to get to know him better. On the other hand, though… pursuing a romantic endeavour with anyone -- not to mention a bard -- could prove disastrous for his cover. He’d loath to bring Ciri to unnecessary danger. 

And then there’s the matter of the talkative Griffin he’d had the pleasure of meeting. Julian is a man with experiences much closer to his own and is no less fascinating than Jaskier. Julian is a man that understands him at his core and one he can never be his true self with. But neither can he with Jaskier. Agh, what a mess.

His musings are cut short by Yennefer’s disappointed huff. 

“There’s another person,” he blurts out before he can think.

“Oh?” Yennefer arches a brow and leans closer, “Do tell.” 

“A witcher of the Griffin school; goes by the name of Julian. Maybe you’ve heard of him.” 

Yennefer blinks owlishly, “Julian,” she repeats, “Julian of Redania. No, never heard of him.” 

“Spill it, Yen. What do you know about him?” 

“That he’s a damn fine witcher but a colossal idiot. That’s all I’m willing to tell.” 

“You’ve met him.” It’s not a question. He can see it in his friend’s eyes. 

“Once or twice. Listen, if he comes back here do not tell him you know me. Even  _ he _ will be able put one and two together and your perfectly crafted cover will be blown. And we don’t want that, do we?”

“We don’t,” he agrees.

“Good. See you later,  _ Eric.  _ I’ll be teaching some tricks of the trade to your lovely daughter in the forest if you wish to find me.” And just like this, Yennefer leaves him at the porch to deal with his thoughts. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo, it took a while to write this chapter as inspiration was... preocuppied  
> In any case, it's here, it's full of himbos and impossibly dumb situations! 
> 
> Big thanks to KHansen for beta-ing this chapter <3 
> 
> lemme know what you think on the comments <3


	6. Oh, Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier meets one of ~~Geralt's~~ Eric's older friends  
> a lot of pining and a good amount of himboness ensues

The flowers are in full bloom, making Geralt’s nose itchy and his eyes burn just enough to irk him. They mock him wherever his gaze lands, a reminder that the bard he met at the end of winter will be soon visiting. It’s maddening how much he thinks of those sweet words and blue eyes, how the image of the smiling bard keeps popping up in his mind with every flower that meets his gaze. 

He’ll be here soon, he reminds himself, he’ll be here and Geralt will finally get some rest. 

A neighbour asks him to check on her horses and Geralt agrees without a second thought, the prospect of a distraction entirely enticing. He’s always liked horses, and the fact that his neighbours trust him enough as an “expert on horses”, as they call him, makes every second spent under the glamour worthwhile. It’s in moments like this that he thinks humanity isn’t at all as bad as he thought it was before… before the inn, before the glamour, before  _ everything _ . 

He leaves the inn when the sun is at its peak, leaving the running of the business to Ciri and her girlfriend, a talented young bardling named Letra that  would do well on the path of becoming a proper musician if she gets a nudge in the right direction (maybe that nudge can come from Jaskier). He walks the muddy, well-trodden path between the little cottages that make Tancarville, passes the town square - the only paved area - and reaches the other side of the settlement, where his neighbour’s stable stands between two tall Platanus trees that cast plenty of shade. 

Melissa, his neighbour, greets him from a distance and gestures for him to join her in the simple wooden building. It’s a goat stable, not a horse one, judging from the overwhelming smell of goats. Yet, two horses have their own little space there. The first has a white and brown splotched coat that smells pregnant and is probably the reason Melissa called Geralt to get his opinion. The other one catches his attention though. It’s an oddly familiar horse; a tall palomino, mane elaborately braided. 

He knows this horse. He stabled it and fed it carrots not a month ago when Julian and his fellow Griffins visited Geralt’s inn. It’s Julian’s horse, if he’s not mistaken. 

Could the Griffin be back already? And if he is, why would he leave his horse with Melissa?

“So, what’s wrong with me Daisy, Eric? Why’s she acting so strange?” Melissa strokes a hand along Daisy’s muzzle.

Geralt moves to the horse in question and pretends to examine it, knowing well enough exactly what’s wrong with her. When he’s satisfied and confirmed that that horse is indeed expecting, he turns to Melissa and says, “She’s pregnant.”

“But how can it be, Eric? Mark and I don’t own a stallion!” 

“You have a male donkey though.” 

“Oh, that little piece of-'' she sighs, “Well, a mule ain’t a bad thing I s’ppose. We could sell it.” 

Geralt hums and smiles, “Got a question, Melissa,” he eyes the palomino, “Where did you get her? That’s a rare colour.”

“It is?” she gasps, “A bard came by earlier and asked if we could keep her for a month. Gave good coin too.”

“A bard,” Geralt echoes. 

Curious. He’s positive this horse belongs to Julian. 

Geralt’s nostrils flare as he discreetly sniffs the air. Yes, it’s Julian’s horse, it still smells faintly of him but also- he sniffs again- it smells of chamomile and fine silk, scents a certain blue-eyed bard wears. 

Does this mean that they know each other? Or maybe they travelled together by accident? But why would Jaskier pay Melissa to watch Julian’s horse when Geralt offers a perfectly good stable with every room rented in the inn? 

It just doesn’t make sense. He’s sure he’s missing a crucial detail. 

Geralt all but sprints to The Flying Rabbit Inn, eager to see Jaskier and quite possibly Julian as well. He cares not if the good folk of Tancarville will worry upon witnessing him in this state (he almost runs onto the Alderman).

Back at the inn, a familiar bard greets him, dark blond curls bouncing as he shifts his weight from leg to leg, a warm happy smile painted on his face. “Eric!” Jaskier exclaims, “Good to see you!”

Geralt’s gaze jitters around in search of Julian, but the Griffin is nowhere to be seen. 

“Jaskier,” he breathes out, “Did you arrive by yourself?”

The bard tilts his head and knits his eyebrows together in confusion, “Of course I arrived by myself. With whom would I be travelling?” 

“I- Hmm- I thought-” Geralt stammers, his mind running a million miles per second trying to find a plausible explanation for the horse situation and coming up with none, “Forget it. It doesn’t matter,” he smiles. 

Perhaps he was mistaken. Perhaps there’s something entirely different at play here. He’s not sure, but what he’s sure about is that Jaskier is finally here, and Geralt is eager to spend the next month getting to know the man better. 

* * *

Jaskier’s heart jumped to his throat when Eric asked him if he arrived alone. Did he perhaps see his horse, and did he recognise it as Julian’s horse? But from the way Eric acts the rest of the day, and then the following week too, it seems that there is no need for alarm as the man doesn’t seem suspicious of him in the slightest. He continues to live day by day tending to his customers, playing Gwent, and chatting with Jaskier as per usual. 

It helps, too, that the residents of this picturesque town are what Jaskier calls “great appreciators of the arts”, joining in the singing and dancing whenever he performs. Aside from performing every afternoon to late night in the inn’s tavern hall. Jaskier finds himself teaching music to Elen’s little friend, Letra. 

It’s fun to be teaching music and composition for a change; so much less dull than when he had to teach potions to Yorik some… fifty years ago. Oh, how the time flies!

And when he’s not teaching nor performing Jaskier is babbling endlessly about this and that to the lovely red-head. The handsome innkeeper may be a smidge -alright,  _ a lot _ \- more taciturn than Jaskier but still, he follows Jaskier’s chatter easily, filling in the silence with a tale, or rather a sentence, of his own. 

It’s the dawn of a new day -fine, it’s not dawn but midday- and Jaskier has just woken up, last night’s festivities having kept him awake far past his usual, already late, bed-time. 

He’s sluggishly making his way down the stairs when a very familiar face enters his vision. 

Melitele’s tits! What is the queen of Creyden doing in Eric’s inn?

It’s her, he’s certain. It hasn’t been long since she invited him to play at her betrothal fest- a fest that lasted a whole week. She’s dressed in plain clothes; a patched up red vest, dark brown shirt showing beneath it, and matching leather pants. 

She’s here incognito then.  _ How peculiar. _

She’s sitting on one of the smaller round tables alone, arms propped on it and chin resting on them. Soon enough, Eric brings two mugs of mead to her table, and sits at the chair opposite hers. 

Jaskier lingers on the stairs, unsure how he should proceed. Should he go down and greet them both, pretending that that’s totally not the queen there? Should he go up and hide in his room until she leaves? Wait. That doesn’t make sense. Why would he hide? It’s not like he’s offended the monarch of Creyden. He just played a few jigs at her wedding, and slept with a bunch of her guards, but who didn’t? If his memory doesn’t betray him the whole castle spent that week drunk and pantless. 

“Good to see you here, Ren,” Eric says, and Jaskier’s curiosity wins as he decides to stealthily make his way down and sit inconspicuously at the bar to eat his breakfast-lunch --brunch?-- (hopefully- if Elen is here and not at Letra’s or Anitta’s). 

“Sorry for the long-ass wait G- Eric, should have visited like a year ago. You know how it is with work; it gets too fucking much, too fucking fast,” queen Renfri of Creyden says casually to the innkeeper. It’s almost like they’ve known each other on a personal level for a long time. How the fuck does the queen know the innkeeper? In what world- Wait, Eric used to be a soldier or something if Jaskier’s excellent deducing skills haven’t failed him. 

Was he perhaps that high ranked of a soldier to manage to get all buddy-buddy with the monarch? But isn’t he like thirty-something years old? How- What- 

“Hey, it’s fine Ren. Elen and I appreciate the help. You did more for us than-” Eric says, but the queen waves her hand dismissively. 

“Are you joking, G- Eric? After that fucking bitch mage-” she takes a deep breath to calm herself, “-after that  _ incident  _ and what you did for me, there’s nothing I could possibly do to repay you. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.” 

The innkeeper hums. 

A life debt owed and paid, huh? There’s so much more to the taciturn innkeeper than meets the eye. So many layers Jaskier’s left to uncover. And just when he thought he’d started to get acquainted quite well with the handsome man. So many layers. Almost like an onion. Jaskier huffs a small laugh at the thought of that particular analogy. 

“What are you laughing at, bard?” Elen looms above him menacingly behind the bar’s counter. “You gonna order something or just do funny faces by yourself?”

“Ah, right, ah. Apologies Elen. I, uhhhhh, I’ll have an omelette please.” 

“Just eggs or do you want some greens in there too? Maybe some Fool’s Parsley?” she raises an eyebrow, and a small smirk forms on her lips.

“ _ Ha-ha.  _ You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“Nope,” she pops the  _ ‘p’ _ . 

“Just eggs for me then. I’m not in the mood to die just yet.”

“Eggs coming up,” Elen flicks her hair off her shoulder and disappears to the kitchen.

* * *

Vengerberg is as beautiful as always; low torchlight illuminates the cobblestone buildings and snaking paved paths, while people of every kind take their evening walks, chatting away. 

Julian is on foot for once, his mare resting at the first stable inside the rich city’s thick walls. It’s summer, and the gentle warm breeze is caressing his skin pleasantly as he reminiscences about the month and a half he spent at Eric’s gorgeous little inn. 

_ Eric, ah handsome Eric.  _

After spending more than a month with the man Julian is still in the dark about many things concerning the enigmatic innkeeper. Eric is a quite private man, and that’s something Julian intends to respect, and yet his curious nature had him asking many -many- not always eloquently put questions during these past forty-four days. 

He’s quite certain he hasn’t ruined every chance he had of wooing the red-head though, as evidenced by his aloofness around Jaskier, Eric seemed to brush off Jaskier’s more… annoying tangents of babbling and barrage of questions. 

Julian hums to himself and beelines for Vengerberg’s finest tavern, the  _ “Rose and Crown” _ , where he’s promised to meet his dearest Yenna. 

As he opens the stained glass and wood door an assemblage of intoxicating aromas hits him. Melitele, how he’s missed this beautiful little place and its fantastic selection of foods and wine. 

Yennefer is already sitting at their usual round table for two, swirling a crystal glass of red wine in her hand already. She tilts her head in a greeting and beckons him over. 

“Darling,” Julian kisses Yennefer on the cheeks three times crossed, before he sits at the chair opposite of hers, “You look fantastic.” 

“I know,” Yenna takes a sip out of her glass, “But enough about me, what have you been up to these past few months?” she asks with a smirk. Oh, that woman! She must’ve peered into his mind- “I didn’t need to read your thoughts, Julek. That dopey smile on your face tells me you’ve got a lot to talk about.”

“Oh, do I!” Julian smiles wider and sighs at the memory of the handsome innkeeper. 

Yennefer hums into her glass, “Spill it lover-boy. I know you’re dying to tell me.”

And spill it he does. Julian tells his friend everything, from start to finish, not leaving a single detail out. He tells her about finding the inn by accident all those months ago, how friendly the town is towards witchers and how kind and inviting Eric has been to him as witcher and bard both. He tells her about staying for over a month at the homey little inn, about spending days decorating the outside of the building with flowers for Belletaine. He tells her about weaving and wearing flower crowns and dancing on the full bloom field with Eric. 

And when he’s finished praising the beauty and kind heart of the innkeeper, Yennefer speaks: “So he thinks Julian and Jaskier are two separate people.”

“Eh, uh… yeah? The whole point of the glamour was to, you know… get away from the dreary lonely Path once in a while.”

“But from what you told me, it really shouldn’t have made a difference if you just kept going there as Julian and not as the bard. Why risk it and go there as both your… roles?” 

Julian huffs out a mock laugh, “Yeah, because people are interested in dating witchers. Don’t make me laugh Yenna. Eric is a nice, unprejudiced man but I doubt he’d take a witcher as a lover. And I told you! Initially, I wanted to repay him for the hospitality, the flirting was only a bonus.” 

“You’d be surprised,” the sorceress murmurs into her drink.

“You know something,” Julian narrows his eyes at her, “What do you know, Yenna?”

“Calm down Julian,” Yennefer rolls her eyes, “All I’m saying is, lying to the man about who you are will probably come back to bite you in the arse. The glamour isn’t the solution to all of your problems.”

She’s right, he knows that to be true somewhere in the depths of his mind. Still, his pride doesn’t allow him to actually admit what he’s doing isn’t exactly morally acceptable. “I’ll be careful, I promise. Jaskier and Julian will be kept as separate as possible,” he says in the end, and Yennefer groans in defeat. “But enough of Eric and the inn. You know I met a spectacular woman while I was there -- a good friend of the Bellegarde family.”

“I’m not sure I like where you’re going with this.”

“Oh hush, dear. I just thought that you’d find the good lady herbalist-doctor fascinating. You two would get along swimmingly!”

Yennefer mumbles something indecipherable under her breath and drinks the remaining wine from her glass. 

Unfazed, Julian continues: “Her name is Jennifer -- thank you for asking-- and she’s a dear. Dark, pretty and snarky; you’d love her immediately, I’m sure.”

Yennefer sighs and pours another glass of wine, downing it like a shot. 

Her loss, really, if she doesn’t want to meet her match made in the heavens Julian can do nothing about it. 

* * *

Geralt has heard, from a travelling merchant, of a contract three settlements over to the west, somewhere on the borders with Kovir. It’s supposedly a fiend that’s been sighted in the woods near the unfortunately named village of Orchis (why would anyone name a settlement Testicles anyway?). 

The rational part of his mind tells him to stay put in his inn, safe and sound from any danger. But there’s this gnawing feeling in his gut, this pull to put on his witcher armour and go hunt the fiend down. He misses the thrill of the chase, the adrenaline pumping through his veins. 

It might prove a good chance to clear his head too, what with the bard and his pretty eyes occupying Geralt’s every second thought. Forty-four days the man spent in Geralt’s inn. Forty-four days and they kept dancing, hovering around each other, never actually broaching the subject of their mutual attraction. 

Well, the bard was bold, Geralt has to admit that. Geralt was… a coward. The whole time Jaskier was there Geralt acted reserved, unsure if approaching the troubadour would be a good idea, what with having to raise Ciri and the tiny matter of his hidden witchery nature. 

Fuck. He should have reciprocated the flirting attempts of the bard better, less subtly. 

Agh. Maybe next time. Maybe he’ll be braver and bolder and- 

He really should go take care of that contract. It’ll do him more good than bad in the long run. 

It’s also rather convenient that Yennefer is at Tancarville at the moment and she can look over the inn and his little princess. 

The sky is overcast with dark clouds, the wind howling as it passes through the narrow nooks of the stone buildings. Perfect weather for fiend hunting, and for walking around unnoticed. 

Geralt promises Ciri to be back soon and sets out to the secret little alchemy garden where he’s built a small underground cellar and hid his witcher equipment. 

Thank fuck, he finds everything where he left it, unscathed by the ground’s moisture. Yennefer did, after all, make sure that no element may enter his little cellar (hole in the ground really). Still, he hasn’t had the chance to check on his stuff for nigh a season and a half now and he was starting to get antsy. 

Making sure there’s no soul in sight that he could accidentally share his secret with, he climbs down the narrow ladder to the cellar and closes the moss-covered wooden trapdoor behind him, flicking an Igni over to the single lamp that hangs from the rocky walls. 

He dons his armour in silence, straps his twin swords on his back, fills his potion holster with a couple of Swallows, a bottle of White Honey and a Relict Oil, and takes off his glamoured bracelet. He hides the precious thing beneath his neatly folded pile of clothes, puts out the lamp, and exits the little safe-room, securing the door. When he’s certain the entrance to the vault is properly hidden he leaves by foot, praying that no other witcher beats him to the contract. 

Travelling by foot is not his preferred method, but he finds the extra exercise welcome this time. The inn keeps him too busy sometimes, leaving him exhausted by the end of the day with no mood to keep up with his training. He fears he’ll go soft if this continues for any longer, his body already showing a slight change these past two and a half years. He’s still strong of course -- he makes sure of that -- but he’s not as lithe and bony as he used to be, and he’s not sure if he likes it or not. 

_ He does like that he has no worries of toughing out the hunger any more. _

In any case, he arrives at Orchis within a day and a half, camping out in the woods under the late summer stars. It’s nice, peaceful even, a stark contrast compared to the noisy life in the inn. 

The contract is still there; the fiend sighted, taller than a man, attacked a couple of woodcutters a few weeks ago, and only one survived. Typical fiend behaviour. It was probably acting out of instinct. He asks around the little village for more details, stopping to pay a visit to the recovering woodcutter. The man describes the beast in detail and there’s no doubt in Geralt’s mind left, it’s indeed a fiend he’s going after. 

He tracks the creature down a cavernous hole in the neighbouring forest. It’s curled up, sleeping peacefully, the half-finished carcass of a bear gathering flies beside it. If he’s careful, muffling his footsteps properly as he approaches it, there won’t be a fight. Just one clean swipe of his sword and it’s done for. 

He stalks forward slowly and carefully, making no sound aside from his steady, rhythmic breathing. Geralt aims to puncture the fiend straight through the neck but as he stabs it with his silver sword the beast shifts and he misses, the cold metal meeting its enormous forearm. 

The fiend releases a deafening shriek and Geralt curses at his insolence, at thinking it will be an easy hunt, at forgoing to apply the decoction to his sword. 

Fuck. 

The white-haired witcher rolls to the side as a massive, clawed hand swipes his way, missing his chest by a hair’s width. 

Shit. Fuck. Alright, he can do this. He just has to focus. And he has to stab the creature’s third -and for now, closed- eye before it can deal much damage. 

The fiend swipes left and right, managing a few scratches and tears on Geralt’s leather armour, just enough to draw blood. Geralt remains on the defensive the entire time, barely sidestepping, trying to find an opening to strike. The moment comes when the beast stops abruptly, a good distance between them, and stares at him. 

Geralt steadies his posture, sword held firm in his hand. The beast looks straight at him, pausing for just enough time so it can direct its hypnotizing gaze directly at the witcher. 

Now’s the time. 

Geralt sends a divertive Aard to the fiend’s left and leaps forward with enough momentum to pluck the dangerous eye from its bared bone skull. With a shine of silver, the sword buries itself in the fiend’s exposed cranium, obliterating the third eye in the process. 

A strangled scream leaves the monster’s throat before it falls motionless on the ground. 

Fuck. 

Adrenaline pumping through his veins, Geralt is shivering, breath coming in short and sharp. He sits beside the now corpse and collects the head to bring to Orchis’ alderman as proof of the hunt. 

He’d forgotten how messy of a work the decapitation of a monster as big as a fiend is. His racing heartbeat has thoroughly calmed down by the time he’s finished with the task, the head neatly deposited in a red-stained burlap bag. He sadly has no horse with him to load the sack on, so carrying the heavy antlered head falls to him. 

He’s not far off from the village, luckily, the trek taking an hour tops even at his slow speed. 

The witcher heaves the sack above his shoulder and emerges from the small cavern with slow and steady footing. 

He’s several paces off the narrow trail the woodcutter uses to get to the village when the telltale hiss of an arrow flying through the air startles him. Without a second thought, he drops the heavy bag to the ground and dives into the nearest batch of thick bushes, his heart jackrabbiting against his ribcage. 

Geralt focuses his hearing on the sounds of the forest, and there among the birds and the small critters and the buzzing of the summer insects, a bow is being drawn and a sword - no, four swords- are being unsheathed. 

Fuck. 

It won’t be the first time a stingy alderman sent people after him when he’s made sure the beast was slain proper. He should be used to it, damnit, but he’s been away from the Path for too long. He’s grown too trusting of people, playing human amidst them. 

“We know where you are, witcher,” a man’s voice echoes, his accent thick; definitely not from around here then. Shit. That’s bad. 

“Surrender the location of the princess, mutant. We know you have her,” a female voice snarls and an arrow is released, hissing through the air before it lands next to Geralt’s feet.

Nilfgaard. They want to take Ciri from him, they want to use him to get to her. 

Geralt sees red. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to Lafayette for beta-ing this chapter <3
> 
> Soooooooo,,,, shit's happening I suppose :3   
> And with that, I'm telling ya next update will take a while since I have a fic for Geraskier Reverse Bang to write which is v exciting <3 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoy the rollercoaster that will be this fic <3 
> 
> And many thanks to my discord buds: [KHansen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KHansen) , [TheJaskiestOfThemAll](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheJaskiestOfThemAll/pseuds/TheJaskiestOfThemAll) , [andrewminyards](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andrewminyards) , [StarsInMyDamnEyes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsInMyDamnEyes) and [screwthepurplegiraffe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/screwthepurplegiraffe/pseuds/screwthepurplegiraffe) for helping with this fic <3 
> 
> And also many thanks to Heronfem for providing the title for this fic

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [down the hills and round the bends](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27422083) by Anonymous 




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